


Lead Balloon

by axelsrose



Series: GTAV Drabbles [2]
Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: But he's Trevor Fucking Philips and no death is gonna stop him from making Mike's life hell, Flirting with death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Let's be fair he should be dead, M/M, Trevor is fuelled by anger and wanting to piss off Michael, Trevor is the damsel in distress for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6383638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axelsrose/pseuds/axelsrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevor however shifted into view, standing between two cars, blocking the view of Michael and Franklin from the police. He smirked, grenade pin between scared lips, shotgun in one hand, and a grenade in the other. “Have a present, ya pigs!”<br/>He threw the half cooked grenade towards where he was sure more of the remaining police were.<br/>There was a ground shaking explosion as the grenade went off, blowing up at least two cars next to the police in the process. Both men ahead ducked, arms flying over their heads momentarily.</p><p>For a moment there was just dust, debris and the sound of car alarms.</p><p>____________________________</p><p>When a job goes wrong, the unholy trinity are left scrambling for safety to save one of their crew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Botched Job

Michael ducked back into cover, more than one bullet whistling past the place his head had just been a moment ago. A few embedded into the concrete above him, raining concrete dust over him. He shook dust from his eyes, the mask over his nose and mouth saving him from inhaling any of it thankfully. The shots were returned by a tell tale pump of a familiar shotgun from his left side and an almost deafening bang.

 

Fucking hell this had gone south _quick_ . It’d been planned out _seemingly_ perfectly. Just a routine bank job. Go in, blow the safe, get the cash, get out on the back of bikes. But the police response had been too severe, this had been completely out of proportion to the bank.

Now they were pinned down, running out of ammo and already partly injured.

 

Trevor’s voice rang out from his left, his old friend hiding behind another pillar. “Mikey, how you doing?”

Michael glanced at his arm. It was still bleeding, but thankfully nothing some minimal patching up couldn’t fix. He yanked the mask off his mouth to call back. “Just fine, T. How many left?”

Franklin’s voice called out from his right, the protege hiding behind a bullet riddled cash counter. “Damn dog, probably ten?”

“ _Probably_ ? What do you fucking mean, _probably_?” Trevor swore, irritation rising. He ducked out of cover to blast a cop off his feet with a single shotgun blast. Michael didn’t need to see it to know the guy was dead before he hit the floor. The wet thud said it all. It should have turned his stomach if he hadn’t heard that sound a hundred times before.

“Calm it, T.” Mike interjected, ducking out of cover to take a few more shots at the police yelling at them from the other side of the bank. “There's probably ten in here and probably another ten on the way and _probably_ more after that.” He took a breath, rubbing the sweat from his eyes with his jacket sleeve.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Franklin breathed from his cover.

“Next time Mikey, we’re going with _my_ fucking plan.” Trevor spat.

Why the hell did all of Michael’s idea’s nearly get them killed?

“There should be a fire exit this way.” Michael glanced sideways to them both, motioning to the back door, which was partially hanging off its hinges from a previous hail of heavy artillery. “Count of three we run. One, two… Three!”

Michael moved first, Trevor and Franklin darting from their cover after him. They barely got through the door in the sudden hail of bullets, the door falling off its hinges in the abuse of all three men barreling through it, followed by enough lead to sink a ship. They bolted past the huddled hostages that had been too scared to move from their cover and towards the fire exit.

 

They barged their way out the door, tripping the fire alarm and ducking gunfire as the police from the main room made their way into the corridor behind them. “Come on come on!” Mike urged, pulling both men out after him and slamming the door behind them. It wouldn’t give them much time, but hopefully enough.

 

“Why the hell didn’t you check the police response first?!” Trevor yelled at Michael, easily running ahead of the other two towards were the motorbikes were hidden in a side alley.

“I did! This is way more than I expected!”

“Well you _obviously_ didn’t check well enough-”

“Fuck sake dog, shut up! This ain’t the time!”

Behind them the fire escape slammed open. “Hold it right there!” None of the men in question stopped. There were gunshots and the three scattered, diving behind cars.

 

They were so close, too fucking close for them to get caught now. _Just get across the carpark and across a street._

Trevor looked over at Michael who had ended up behind the car next to his, giving him a scowl. “Don’t even say anything, T.” Mike muttered, shifting so he could get a better view of the police piling out the door, scattering to hide behind cars. Six. Maybe they had overestimated? Or the others were on their way to surrounding the area.

There was a bang from slightly further down from Franklin’s hiding spot. Five.

 

“Keep moving, we can’t stay here. Bikes are a street down.” Michael called out, shifting to run closer towards the alley their bikes were in, keeping as low as he could. Franklin followed suit, narrowly avoiding gunfire as he dipped between cars.

Trevor however shifted into view, standing between two cars, blocking the view of Michael and Franklin from the police. He smirked, grenade pin between scared lips, shotgun in one hand, and a grenade in the other. “Have a present, ya pigs!”

He threw the half cooked grenade towards where he was sure more of the remaining police were.

There was a ground shaking explosion as the grenade went off, blowing up at least two cars next to the police in the process. Both men ahead ducked, arms flying over their heads momentarily.

 

For a moment there was just dust, debris and the sound of car alarms.

 

Michael stopped, glancing back as Franklin recovered and continued towards the alley. “T?”

Trevor wasn’t behind him like he expected.

In fact Trevor was collapsed behind the nearest of the cars, not far from where he’d thrown the grenade. “Trevor!?”

Franklin finally stopped, turning heel to see what was going on. “T? Were you- Shiiiiiiiit!”

Mike abandoned his original route, threw the duffel bag he was carrying to Franklin and sprinted towards Trevor, who was attempting to prop himself up against the car, arm wrapped tightly against his middle. Michael skidded to a stop, ducking a shot made at him. Apparently not all of the police were down but enough were probably injured it was making it harder. Franklin took cover behind the wall, trying to pick off the remaining cops.

 

“T?! Shit, are you okay?”

“Yeah, porkchop, I’m just _peachy_.” Trevor snapped breathlessly, face twisted in pain. Fuck he felt nauseous. He pulled his arm away from his middle, head spinning. Fuck that was a lot of blood, way too much blood.

“Fuck… Mikey you gotta get out of here. I’ll just slow you down-”

“I ain’t leaving you T.”

Trevor stared at him, his own hazel eyes locked with Michael’s baby blue, confusion etched deep into his features. This felt so dreadfully familiar but so very different. Deja vu of a moment nearly 10 years old by now. A moment that for nearly 10 years he thought had been the last moment he’d seen his best friend alive.  
All at once, Michael seemed to realise the same thing, his eyes widening slightly in realization.

 

They both snapped out of it as Trevor shuddered suddenly, curling into himself clutching the bullet wound just under his lung. Fuck this was getting painful.  
Without hesitating, Michael pulled his jacket off. “T, gimme your pocket knife.” When Trevor didn’t respond fast enough for Michael’s liking, he fished it out Trevor’s jean pocket. In all the years he’d known him, it’d always lived in the same pocket.

 

“Heh.. Mikey… Feeling me up now?” Trevor tried to joke, the words slurring and stuttering over each other like one of Michael’s old scratched vinyl records, trying to focus on Michael as he started cutting up the jacket into crude bandages. It wasn’t ideal, but it’d keep him from bleeding out before they got somewhere safe.

“Yeah T, I decided I should give you a handy through your jeans while you’re bleeding out.” Michael joked, giving him a tense smile. Trevor gave a weak breathless chuckle.

 

Having tied the bandages together, Michael put the knife between his teeth, pulling Trevor’s arm away from the still blooming dark stain on his shirt. It was bad, just between his ribs above the long angry red scar already present. It would surely leave a new scar if they did manage to fix this.

Bandaging the wound as tightly as he could, he placed the pen knife in his own pocket and threw Trevor’s bag over one shoulder. Bracing himself, he wrapped one arm under Trevor’s armpit and pulled his best friend to his feet.  
Even after all these years, Trevor could feel the strength still hidden under that ever present layer of puppy fat. 25 years and he’d never shifted it.

 

With more effort then he remembered it being, Trevor stumbled with Michael, leaning much of his weight on the other man. Just the effort of focusing was making his head spin. Since when had this been so exhausting?

“T, focus on me. You’ll have to sit on the bike with me, I don’t want you driving.” Michael stated in a tone that gave Trevor a hint that he shouldn’t argue. Michael, when he wasn’t being a shit eating coward was a stubborn asshole, Trevor knew that all too well. “Yeah yeah.” The reply came as a grunt, hand shifting on top of Michael’s to press the wound.

 

“Fuck, M, is he gonna be okay?”

“Of course he is. He’s Trevor fucking Phillips.”

Trevor looked up at his name, giving a pained cocky grin. “Yeah, like a fucking bullet is gonna take _me_ down. I ain’t fuckin’ going anywhere Frankie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of ??? for my friend Nate. He gave me the idea for a fic where Michael has to save Trevor from dying after a job gone wrong. I've got a fair bit more written but I wanted to post at least something to motivate me to finish the rest.


	2. Storm Clouds Brewing

Getting Trevor onto the bike had been more effort than Michael had anticipated it to be, with Franklin having to help Trevor onto the back of the bike behind him. Instinctively, Trevor wrapped his arms around Mike’s middle, leaning heavily into him as they pulled out the opposite end of the alley they had come through and drove as fast as they could in the opposite direction to the bank, ignoring the sirens that were blaring up behind them a street across.

 

There was a soft click of their headsets activating and Michael’s voice crackled over the engine noise. Wind whipped around them, tugging at clothes and sending a fresh chill through them. “Hey, F, we’re too far from a safehouse. Should be a motel about ten miles up the road or more. We’ll pull in there.” 

Trevor listened, uncharacteristically quiet as he focused on staying the alive long enough for them to even make it worth going to some shitty motel in the middle of nowhere. 

 

“T, you still with me?” Michael’s voice was quiet, spoken without the headset to keep it between them. Trevor only caught it as it was carried on the wind that threatened to pull him off the back of the bike. “Yeah Mikey. I ain’t fuckin’ dyin on you yet.” Trevor’s voice was close to his ear, sounding tired and frustrated at his state, all at once. There was a pause, only filled with the sound of the bike engine and the wind. 

The sun was going down now and dark clouds were starting to roll in fast, giving the sky a red pink glow as they caught the dying sunlight. In the distance between the valley of some hills, he could see the sea, tinted sunset pink and strangely calm despite the advancing storm clouds. If it wasn’t for the stickiness against Michael’s back reminding him of the urgency of their situation, he’d have found it almost peaceful. 

Trevor’s voice pulled Michael out of his thoughts. 

“...Michael?” 

“Yeah T?” 

“You should’ve left me.” Trevor muttered, sounding almost angry that Michael had actually wasted time saving him. He could have gotten them all killed. 

“I ain’t leaving you behind again.” Michael replied without skipping a beat. Trevor let out a low growl, scarred hands gripping at the others shirt, blunt nails biting at his stomach through the fabric. Michael only flinched slightly at the sensation. 

 

They sped past a sign that dictated that the motel was at the next layby. The sky however, apparently couldn’t wait for them as the heavens opened, soaking them and the road in rain, the sun had barely finished setting. “Fuck you Michael. You had no problem abandoning me last time.” Trevor snarled, his voice cracking slightly and betraying the hurt that the memory still brought on. Michael let out a frustrated sigh, this wasn’t the time to reopen old wounds. The rain was quickly starting to worsen, coming down in thick sheets that obscured his view, causing the road to slicken and the cold wind to start biting into his bare, and now rain drenched, arms and face as they drove deeper into the brewing storm. “We can argue about this later.” He dismissed, trying to focus on the road. 

“No, we won’t argue about this later, ‘cause I’ll probably be  _ dead _ ,” Michael furrowed his brow, trying to ignore the labouring breath against his ear, but Trevor pressed on, his voice quiet but strongly feice. He hadn’t lost his spark even in the dampening of pain and rain. “and if I die, it’s  _ your  _ fucking fault Townley. Cause like always, it was your fucking  _ grand idea _ .” 

“I’d like to point out, the times we let you do the plan, you got arrested-” 

“-That was over 25 years ago!-” 

“-and you stole a  _ super weapon _ we had to give back.” Trevor grunted in reply, he wasn’t about to admit that it  _ had  _ been a stupid idea and he should have checked exactly what it was first. But he wasn’t going to give Michael the satisfaction. Dying or not. 

 

There was more silence as the argument tapered off. Trevor was breathing heavy against the back of his neck and after a while, Michael felt the slightly older man's forehead lean against his shoulder. Through the sheets of rain, Michael could see the dim neon light of the motel. Finally, safety.

 

“...Sorry...”

In the noise, he very nearly missed the word and Michael nearly slammed the breaks on in shock. In all his years of knowing Trevor, he could count the amount of times he’d said that word to him and really meant it on one hand. And certainly none of those times had been since Trevor had come crashing back into his life. “Shut up T, you ain’t thinking straight.” 

“Fuck off. I don’t want you thinkin’ I  _ hated  _ you- You’re my  _ best fuckin’ friend  _ even if you are a shit eating coward _. _ I  _ couldn’t- _ ”

Trevor cut himself off, breath shaking with the effort to try and keep calm. If he was going to die, he couldn't let that go unsaid. “Yeah, well you should. I stabbed you in the back and fucked you over.” Michael pointed out, shifting a hand to make sure Trevor's arms stayed around him. Trevor tightened his grip slightly on Michael’s waist, exhaling slowly and shakily, trying to resist the urge to comment back. Michael in turn, tightened his grip on the handlebars. He wanted to brush off his words. He was slowly bleeding out and he wasn’t thinking straight. 

  
That was what this was. Nothing more. Trevor would be back to insulting him later like he'd never said anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Next chapter. I've had this a while, but I wanted to wait so I could dedicate it to my friend Nate, who is the reason I even started this. So, Happy birthday Nate, have some feels!


	3. Motel Blues

The motel came into view through the rain. It wasn’t great, run down and tired looking, with a few boarded windows and flickering yellow street lamps, but it was good enough for their purposes. Michael switched lanes, taking a sharp turn into the parking lot and pulled up beside Franklin who had already parked up and started to dismount his bike. 

 

“Frank, pick open a room. Ground floor of you can. T, stay with me.” Michael ordered, shifting the duffelbag over his shoulder to rest it on the tank of the bike. 

Trevor grunted in reply. “I can barely feel my legs, sugar tits. I ain't going anywhere.” 

Michael let out a dry snort of laughter and gently prised Trevor’s burnt and tattooed fingers from his stomach. “I'm gonna need you to hold yourself up, so I can get off.” Reluctantly, Trevor let go and Michael managed to swing his leg over the bike with a small awkward hop. Now he just needed to figure how to get Trevor to the room. Michael got an idea. 

 

“...So, you're not gonna like this.”

Trevor braced himself against the seat, head spinning. “I don't like  _ any  _ of this.” He pointed out humorlessly. 

_ Good point. _ Michael thought. None of them liked this. It was fucked up. Not to mention it was his own fault. Although he was reluctant to  _ admit _ that out loud. 

Without hesitating any longer, he slung the duffelbag over his shoulder, pulling Trevor to face him, with some help to get his leg over, and scooped Trevor off the bike. He turned, carrying him bridal style towards the door Franklin had successfully picked and was holding open. 

True to Mike's word, Trevor didn't like it at all, and gave a protest as he was scooped up, trying to get Michael to put him down again. He clawed at his face and shoved at his chest however he wasn’t in much of a fit state to exactly walk on his own and even if he could get down, he would barely be able to stand straight. Trevor finally gave up protesting as it made his head spin, threatening to make him vomit up the foul concoction of booze and less than healthy crap that comprised his diet.

 

As he was carried into the room, a single thought flickered through his blood loss and pain addled mind. Well many thoughts did, but only one did that didn’t comprise of Michael and the many ways he could kill him right now; _ Feels just like home.  _ Franklin followed them in, closing the door behind them, blocking out the heavy rain that attempted to enter after them. Trevor scanned the rest of the room as the light was flicked on, bathing everything in a dying yellow white glow. 

It was  _ very  _ much like home. Filthy, stained and the tell tale sounds of cockroaches scuttling along the edges of the room sounded. An old worn bed, with sheets stained with things that he knew the cause of many times over, sat in the middle, pushed against the far right wall from the door. Opposite that, sat a sideboard with a tv that looked like it had seen better days, an inch of dust caking the top and the screen cracked. The curtains were moth eaten and might have once been a blue colour, but now they were faded and looked like they had been set on fire at some point. Dust motes drifted through yellow street lamp light, filtered through cracked glass that may have been cleaned once in the last 10 years, held in place with chipped rotten wood work that rattled gently as the wind lashed at the struggling glass pane. The light illuminated the stained, once white carpet and pale yellow wallpaper that peeled and curled at the edges. 

It harkened back old buried memories of dingy motels when they were younger, one of them camping at the window to make sure they weren’t jumped while they took it in turns to sleep, travelling around the country in planes or trucks, taking bullshit scores to get by. It’d been simpler then. In their own ways, they both missed the old days. There hadn't been so many bad and misjudged choices complicating everything. 

 

Trevor was pulled out of his thoughts, groggily blinking at Michael as he was lay on the bed. “Homie, what do you need?” 

“Get me some water and a cloth, clean as possible.” Michael ordered to the waiting protégé, tossing the duffelbag into the corner before turning to Trevor. The old methhead tried to sit up, but the movement sent a bolt of pain through him that nearly made him vomit. 

“Woah, T. Take it easy.” Michael started, pushing his best friend back down. Despite glaring daggers, Trevor conceded, collapsing back with enough force to send dust dancing into the air. 

Pulling Trevor’s switchblade from his pocket, Michael carefully cut away the bandages, dark blue stained black with blood, and the filthy once white shirt that clung to the filthy rarely bathed skin. “Fucking a’, Trev. Have you ever heard of a bath.” The not so ex-bank robber muttered under his breath. “There's a  _ wonderful _ invention called soap. Maybe you should invest in some.” 

“Sarcasm is very unbecoming of you Michael.” Trevor grunted, the urge to punch the sarcastic asshole in the mouth rising. He would have done it if breathing hadn’t become so painful.

Frank came back with a chipped plant pot he had hastily emptied of its dead inhabitant and filled with water and a moth eaten towel from the bathroom. Michael took both and while ignoring Trevor’s complaints, cleaned the still bleeding wound. The bullet was still in there and after cleaning the wound, he realised it’d be too deep to actually get out without fucking him up worse. “Shit. Looks like you’re getting a new scar, T. That ain’t comin’ out.” 

“Well fuckin’ great.” Trevor breathed from gritted teeth. He could really do with a bottle of whiskey right about now.

Franklin paced like a trapped dog, hands in his tightly curled hair. “Shit, man. What do we do?” 

They had no supplies, no needle and thread, but they did have two things; 

Michael’s lighter and Trevor’s knife. 

“You’re not going to like this.” 

“I wish you’d stop fucking sayin’ that.” Trevor spat weakly. As much as he liked Michael deep down.  _ Very  _ deep down. He really wanted to punch the bastard in the face most of the time. Now was one of those times. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow so I'm super bad at this. But after 4 months we have part 3. This actually is going longer then I expected, so that's a thing. 
> 
> Part 4 will most likely be soon!


	4. Rain and cigarette smoke

Less than ten minutes later, smoke was filling the motel bathroom and escaping out the small open window in thick tendrils as Franklin poked the fire he’d started in the sink with the motel curtains and the lighter. His brow furrowed as he frowned at it. He had to trust Michael’s judgement this would work. 

“Frankie! How we lookin?” Michael called from the bed. He’d shifted to get ready to pin Trevor down. Weak or not, Trevor was strong and this would hurt like a bitch. “‘M comin’.” Frankie called, dipping the lighter fluid doused blade of the old knife into the flames. The fire licked the steel, heating it slowly. This would only have a short span of time before it’d need reheating so they probably only had one chance. He could get to the bed in about 10 strides at most from this tiny motel bathroom. 

“If make it out of here.” Trevor started eyeing Michael through half lidded eyes. If he was going to die in a motel room, he was going to die still ripping chunks out of Michael. The incident on the bike very much private to the two of them. 

“Yeah yeah.” Michael muttered, swinging a leg over Trevor’s hips. He kept one hand on the torn sheet he was using to try and stem the bleeding. Trevor gave a grunt, smirking up at him, looking way too smug for a man in agony. Michael gave him an incredulous look. “...Wipe that fuckin’ look off your face T.” 

“You look good up there-” Trevor crooned with a gravely voice, scared lips twitching at the corner.

“T.” Michael shot warningly, heat flushing in his face for a moment. As if to make his point he forced the heel of his palm into the tender flesh just below the bleeding wound. Trevor hissed in pain, grabbing Michael’s wrist with a grip that honestly surprised the bank robber. Trevor held it for a moment before letting it go with a grunt of irritation.

“Nearly ready!” Frank called. Michael shifted to strip his belt off, Trevor’s smirk only grew again. Michael threw his old best friend another pissy look, folding the belt and shoving it between Trevor’s teeth. 

Franklin hurrying into the room was the only thing that stopped Trevor’s muffled retort. “Ready!”

In a flurry of sudden activity, Michael grabbed the nearly red hot knife by the handle and pulled the makeshift gauze away. Franklin dove to grab Trevor’s wrists holding them above his head. Trevor had been burnt before, hell, he’d done it to himself. And he’d been in  _ pain  _ before, but the burning steel that suddenly pressed against the tender wound sent the world spinning, bile rising in his throat. He trashed, Franklin barely able to keep him pinned before hitting Michael or himself square in the jaw, knees hitting Michael in the back as he trashed like a trapped animal. Behind the belt, the meth head spat out a garbled string of curses (aimed mostly at Michael) that would have made a nun blush. Then as quickly as it started, it stopped and Michael tossed the knife into the water filled plant pot with a hiss. 

Trevor stopped thrashing and Frank let go. Trevor heaved, tossing the belt from his mouth and using the sudden surge of adrenaline he’d gained, punched Michael square in the jaw. Mike went reeling, falling sideways off the bed, Franklin yelled and jumped in, trying to stop Trevor from lunging off the bed after him. “Woah! Chill!” 

Trevor yanked himself away, hissing in pain as he braced himself on the musty mattress. He shouldn’t exactly be thrashing, but Michael deserved it. He turned on Franklin, who stood his ground. “Go and get me some fucking booze.” Trevor spat, world tilting dangerously as his head spun. He shook violently, sweat breaking out across his skin, mouth dry. 

Michael pulled himself to his feet, motioning at Frank who was stood looking between them. “Go go. I’ll be fine.” 

“Dawg, no disrespect but he looks like he’s going to  _ murder  _ you.” 

“Franklin, you should know by now that that’s Trevor’s resting face. Go on.” Michael waved one hand at him, rubbing his jaw with the other, eyeing Trevor as he hauled himself off the other side of the bed and grabbed the water filled flowerpot. He fished his knife out of the water and with as much disregard to his own health as usual, necked it. Franklin and Michael both cringed in unison. “Oh and get me a fucking burger too.” Trevor added, dropping the pot to one side carelessly, either completely oblivious to their disgust or completely uncaring. (It was an almost 100% chance of the latter, Michael concluded.) 

* * *

After dosing the still steady fire in the sink, which thankfully hadn’t spread to anything, Franklin left to scope out the area and get Trevor whatever alcohol was strongest and food. Michael took to throwing all the bloodied and burnt things in the bath out of the way. Trevor just sprawled out on the bed, one leg hanging off the edge. All the adrenalin had kickstarted the fact he hadn’t had a hit of meth in what was nearly 4 days. He was hungry, his mouth still felt dry and he couldn’t seem to quell the shakes that had started.

There was a beep from Michael’s phone in the bathroom, followed shortly by a loud frustrated sigh.

“We’ll stay here till tomorrow morning.” Michael spoke from the bathroom. 

“What  _ now _ ?” Trevor grunted, shifting over to grab Michael’s discarded jacket, rummaging in the pockets to pull out a packet of battered cigarettes. The packaging had seen better days but the actual cigarettes were surprisingly intact. He lit one with the accompanying lighter, taking a long drag from it. Not the same, not the same at  _ all _ . But he didn’t exactly carry meth with him.

“Because Frank says the place is crawling with cops. If you want to go and get shot  _ again _ , we  _ can  _ go.” He came back into the main room and grabbed the pack off him. “I could split your share with me and Frank when you keel over.” Michael added, taking a cigarette for himself. 

“Fuck off. Keep telling you to quit. Bad for you.” Trevor muttered, motioning with his own lit cigarette at the pack in Michael’s hands. Mike rolled his eyes. 

“You’re smoking my cigarettes.” He pointed out, sticking one between his lips and lighting it, tossing the pack onto the bedside table. 

 

A long silence followed, filled with cigarette smoke, the sound of rain and Trevor's slightly raspier than usual breathing. 

“Thought I was gonna lose you.” 

Trevor opened one eye, watching Michael as he stared out the window. The failing yellow light  of the overhead light casting his face into shadow. “Stop fucking with me.” Mike shot him a look, lips set into a hard line. Trevor rolled his eyes, rolled carefully off the bed and stood beside him, gazing out at the rain thrashing the concrete and cars. He elbowed Mike in the ribs before leaning into him. Michael threw an arm round his middle to help hold him up.

“Can’t get rid of me that easy. You’re fuckin’ stuck with me, cupcake.”

“I guess I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone! Sorry it took so long! <3


End file.
